CHAPTER 2. GROUND CONTROL
Faulds, with full aural accompaniment from Ike and Tina Turner's River Deep, Mountain High, took a single step back from the main body of wreckage, staring intently at the twisted mangle of metal and bodies, as if a clue or sudden insight would magically appear out of thin air.
Because for Faulds, they usually did.
His mind automatically ran through the details he knew. First, a private helicopter, likely from the nearby international airport, still to be confirmed along with its destination, exploded or was consumed by a sudden fire while in mid-air, before plunging down onto the unfortunate car that was mangled underneath the chopper's body, killing the driver, his identity still to be confirmed.
Thankfully - at least for Faulds' investigation - the fuel in the tanks had burst out and back as it had ignited, leaving the interior of the cabin relatively untouched. Faulds had investigated fires before where only shreds of evidence had remained, everything else burnt to ashes by lengthy, sustained fire. No, this was different; short, sharp and powerful.
There had been more than enough force however, to kill the people in the aircraft, more than likely before they hit the ground from the evidence he had so far collected. Digital and 35mm photographs, traces of unburnt fuel on cotton swabs, powders and fragments on adhesive mounts, larger pieces with tweezers or gloves, even buckets of the fire-retardant foam sprayed onsite by firefighters in the off-chance any trace evidence had been swept out by the liquid, all methodically documented and accounted for, piles of handwritten notes and photographs detailing their discovery and their relation to the main crash site.
Fortunately for Faulds, the mass of evidence was scattered over just a small area of road, making it easy to collect, but something about that unsettled him. He filed it at the back of his mind for later, coming back again to what he knew, what he saw, what was directly in front of him, and very much deceased.
It seemed as though there had been three occupants of the chopper, with two burnt bodies in the pilot and co-pilot's seats, as well as what appeared to be the fragmented remains of a third victim in a rear seat. Whether or not there was a third victim of the fire/explosion was still to be confirmed, as Faulds still had a few areas of the front of the chopper to work on before he moved to the back, methodically - always methodically - collecting evidence and samples as he went.
He had tackled the chopper head on for a reason, or at least as much of a reason as the current evidence would provide;
The figure - or what remained of it - to the rear of the helicopter was damaged far more severely than the front two, and had been thrown forward in the cabin, not backwards, indicating that the explosion or fire had occurred at the rear of the aircraft, which could indicate an accidental or otherwise explosion in the fuel tanks, or if not, an explosion from within the cabin. And if there had been an explosion in the cabin, things really got interesting.
An explosion at the rear of the cabin meant explosives, and explosives meant residue.
In his mind's eye, Faulds could picture the interior of the aircraft, and in a surreal slow-motion, could imagine it being rocked by a mighty explosion from the rear. Ahead of the shockwave and fire of the explosion, billions of minute fragments of the explosive would rocket out, peppering the interior of the aircraft. Although many would be destroyed by the fire, some would survive, and if they were there, Faulds would find them.
And then whoever put them there.
"Cameron Faulds, you sure know how to show a girl a good time."
Faulds said nothing, suppressing the smile her comment instinctively raised.
"I mean, exploding helicopters...it's a first for me."
"Me too," he said, taking out his earphones but continuing to stare at the wreckage.
She wasn't offended by his limited response, not now. Years back, when they had first worked together, she had taken his silences, deep thought, and of course, perpetual music, as a sign of his indifference.
Now, she just knew it was Faulds being, well, Faulds.
"Wreckage indicates an explosion or sudden combustion at the rear of the aircraft, powerful enough to rip the tail from the body, but not so much that it blew the thing to pieces," he said, tapping his fingers on his jeans rhythmically. "If this was planned, then this isn't overkill, it's not a crazed act. This isn't someone that got their hands on a internet how-to manual on home-made bomb construction."
"We've got someone that knows at least a little about explosives."
"And control. Control over the explosion, and control over themselves, their emotions. And that worries me, Charlotte."
CSI Charlotte Graham nodded. Cameron Faulds' second-in-command was decidedly professional-looking in comparison to her partner, with a charcoal trouser suit, polished shoes and brown hair tied back to keep the mass of curls away from her face. Smooth fair skin and blue eyes were a hallmark of Scots heritage, as much as her luggage was a hallmark of her profession. The stainless steel case she placed on the ground carried the same equipment as most CSIs around the world, and like every other investigator, once that case opened, it was game time.
"You're not the only one that's worried," she said while pulling on the latex gloves that prevented scene contamination as well as protecting her from the myriad of dangers that could be found at any crime scene. "The airport's closing down to all flights, the media's all over this, the public are bound to be worried that we're seeing more terrorist strikes on our cities..." The gloves snapped tight. "But this isn't terrorism, is it?"
"Not in the conventional sense, no," Faulds replied, turning for the first time to face her since she arrived. "Terrorism is about creating a huge statement for your beliefs, whereas this was small, private, personal. No, the public are safe on this one."
"Apart from this poor guy," Charlotte said, peering into the wreckage of the flattened car with the aid of her Maglite torch. "So a small explosion and fire, huh? More indicates mechanical failure of some type rather than explosives. Odds are in that favour too, you know that only five per cent of aircraft crashes since the 1950's are as a direct cause of sabotage?"
"Whereas thirteen per cent are mechanical failure," Faulds nodded. "But can you tell me that last time that you played the odds on something?"
"You know I never gamble," she smiled.
Faulds said nothing in reply. He knew Charlotte Graham well enough to know that his partner wasn't the gambling type; too many variables and unknowns for her brilliant, methodical mind to bother with. Out of all the investigators he had worked with, Faulds knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Charlotte had the keenest eyes of any CSI he had known. There had been many a time where her sharp investigative skills had picked out evidence others, even Faulds himself had missed, and Faulds would be the first to point this out.
"Right, I got the information you sent to my PDA," she said. "What do you need me to do?"
"Same thing you always do, help me crack this case."
"You know, once, just once, I'd love you to say you want me to do nothing, just go home, relax and watch TV."
"As if you'd listen to me."
She grinned. "Still, the offer would be nice. You taken a look at the vic from the car yet? Think there's a chance of a connection?"
"No and no, at least I can't think why someone would kamikaze a moving car in a helicopter just to kill someone."
As Charlotte went to speak, Faulds held his hands up.
"Yes, I know I'm always the first to come up with some strange theories, but Charlotte, there are easier ways of killing someone than this method."
"I'll let it slide this once. So work on the chopper then the car?"
Faulds nodded, motioning towards the mangled driver. "I'm sorry to say, he's the least of our concerns at the moment." It was a tough but necessary part of the job for any investigator; learning that everything was evidence. It may be glass, blood, or a whole body, but it was all evidence, and all evidence had priorities, which meant looking for the source of the explosion to begin with. Identifying and returning secondary victims came way back.
"I've collected samples of black powder from the window frame and the collar of the pilot and sent them off to trace," Faulds continued. "But there's something else I want you to look at."
He led Charlotte to the co-pilot's side of the aircraft, to see one victim blown forward and slumped against the control panel, his body horrifically burnt, arms twisted at unnatural angles. Charlotte knew that the heat of the blast would have instantly dehydrated the muscles of the exposed arms, contracting them into the so-called boxer's position, whereas the shockwave of the blast would have slammed into the bodies with great force, especially at such close range. And it was possibly the shockwave that had snapped this victim's neck, twisting his head 180 degrees so that it faced backwards. Possible, but in this line of work, it had to be proved.
The co-pilot's face was pressed against the control panel, facing completely the opposite way that it was supposed to, having taken the brunt of the blast, his face horrifically damaged from the combined effects of the blast, fire and shrapnel.
"Take a look at this," Faulds said, crouching down to get a view from below. Charlotte copied him, following his torch beam to a small spot, fingernail-size on the man's left cheek, burnt onto the flesh.
"Plastic?" she asked, photographing the mark before Faulds carefully detached the spot with thin-nosed tweezers, dropping it into a glass Petri dish.
"There's something else here, a brown power residue of some kind, been burnt, pretty badly, but I'll try a work-up back at the lab. Part of the explosive, maybe?"
"Maybe," she said, studying it closely. "Or maybe not. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"I'm thinking we need to find out who was onboard this aircraft."
X X X
"If this doesn't prove I'm right about air travel, nothing will."
Faulds shot a look. "Statistically it's still the safest way to travel."
"Statistically it's unlikely I'll win the lottery, but I still play every week."
"And you've still not won."
"Ah, but when I do, I'll give you something."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, a nice little postcard from the Caribbean for you and your statistics to look at in that lab of yours."
Faulds laughed as he stepped out of the elevator, matching Detective Inspector Craig Monaghan stride for stride. Monaghan was only two years older than Faulds, but life and the job had been tougher to him. Physically, at least. A skewed nose from breaking up too many fights as a beat cop matched a mouth set to perpetual scowl when it wasn't lopsidedly grinning to another lousy joke of his own. With the build of a rugby player, Monaghan was big, solid, and frighteningly effective at his job when it was required.
Faulds and Monaghan reached the room they were looking for and entered without knocking. The security control room of Glasgow International Airport was a hive of activity, loud and manic and chaotic. CCTV screens showed silent pictures of the scored of annoyed passengers in the terminal below, fuming at the fact the airport had been shut to nearly all in and outbound flights, with Abby Parker's flight from Chicago the last to arrive before the lockdown.
Security staff barked into microphones, co-ordinating both the handling of the passengers and the search of the airport buildings and aircraft for any possible explosives or bomber, accompanied of course by the police.
Monaghan nodded at one of the screens. "I think we're about to have a wild mob down there."
Faulds smiled a little. "Have you ever noticed when something like this happens, delays, closures and the like, people become fascinated with announcement boards? I mean, they stand and stare at these devices like they're waiting on an answer from the Almighty."
"Never noticed it. Usually 'cause I'm one of the ones staring."
The two men made their way over to a harassed-looking man, his light suit dampening with sweat around the lapels and cuffs as he surveyed the chaos.
"Mr Brewer?" Monaghan asked, addressing the airport's chief of operations, seemingly snapping him out of a daze. "Mr Brewer, were you able to find what we were looking for?"
"Oh, er, yes. Yes we have," he replied, his arm indicating the detective and the CSI to a small office to the rear of the security room, passing a file folder to Monaghan. As they walked, Brewer spoke quickly. "I'm, er, very sorry about all of this, it's just we've never...well, you know."
"Had something like this occur?" Faulds asked. "It looks like everything's progressing just as we need."
"Oh yes, we've had the drills of course, but this is a real act of terrorism. I've never had to worry about some real psychopath leaving real bombs around my airport before."
Faulds caught himself on the brink of telling Brewer that the killer certainly wasn't a psychopath, anything but. This attack had been cool, calm and collected, set for a specific time and for a reason, not simply killing for killing's sake. Already Faulds had a theory beginning to form in his mind, and he didn't like it whatsoever.
"I'm sure you and your airport will be fine," he said simply.
"We'll have this guy in the cells as soon as possible," Monaghan added. "Even quicker once we talk to your guy in here."
They stepped into the office, a man rising from the table and chairs in the centre of the room as they did.
"Hey," he said, holding his palms up and out in a gesture of honesty. "I just want you to know that..."
"Perfect," Faulds said, unwrapping a swab and drawing it down the left palm of the man, who was dressed in dirty airport staff overalls before copying the procedure on the other hand with a second swab.
"What the hell is this for?" the man demanded, somewhat taken aback.
"Finding things," Faulds replied, sealing the swabs in paper containers.
"What kind of things?"
Faulds met his stare for the first time. "Anything," he said with a smile.
And just then, it was Monaghan's turn to take over.
"Dean," he said," I'm DI Monaghan, just want to ask you a few questions, okay? Now we know you were on shift when the chopper left, and you were the one responsible for the refuelling and loading duties..."
"Whoa, waitaminute. Are you saying I'm a suspect here?"
"No, we're saying you were the last person to deal with this chopper before it ended up as an attractive yet sadly unfunctional car decal, which, co-incidentally, ended up killing the driver. That's four victims now, at least that we know about."
"I had nothing to do with this," the man - Dean - insisted. "Absolutely nothing. Never been in trouble with the cops in my life, so I'm not gonna start by killing four people, am I?"
"So what happened?" Monaghan asked.
"Same as every outbound flight. We received the flight plans from the pilot beforehand and fuelled accordingly, then loaded the cargo into the rear of the aircraft. It's a...it was a Bell 109E, passenger aircraft, so no designated cargo hold."
"So you put the cargo in the rear of the cabin, right?" Faulds asked. "Behind the passengers' seats?"
"Yeah, there's floor eyelets in the 109 for lashing cargo to, nothing much. This was only a couple of cases, heavy, mind you."
"You check the cases?" Monaghan asked.
"Yeah, both us loaders and the customs boys before us. Can't be too careful with things like that these days. It was computer gear, I think. Processors and things, or at least the salesman said."
"Salesman?"
"Said he was going to some kind of expo to show off his latest stuff, nice enough guy. A lot of businessmen you get through the private helipad are quite full of it, you know? They won't even talk to us, as if we're beneath them. Now they deserve to go out like this," he grinned.
Faulds shot a steely glare. "No-one deserves to die like this."
Monaghan let the tension hang in the air for a second before speaking once more. "Where was the destination anyway?"
"Belfast."
"Belfast, huh? Flights from here to Northern Ireland common?"
"Common as anywhere else. There's a lot of big money men comes rolling through this little pad, and they don't like to be told where they're landing, believe me. These guys fly all over the country, usually from meeting to meeting, or so they brag, so yeah, it's not that unusual."
"What do you think?" Monaghan asked over his shoulder.
"What I think…" Faulds said, fishing his MP3 player from his pocket. "I think this is going exactly where I hoped it wouldn't."